Mother, we aare glad you are alive
Being now sixteen and nine-seventy-five
We see with hope and clarity (almost)
Ahead, thy seventeen-thousandth post.
Although no more of King Khandu we read,
And silent is the voice of Ancient Tweed,
And freds and trollops all are gone,
Yet we bold few will still press on.
We'll get you there -- soon, if not now.
This is our solemn BS vow.
And then we'll rest, and have with thee
Two chocolate cookies and three cups of tea.

A